


In The South I Sleep

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discipline, Family, Love, M/M, Romance, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 7: Liquid.  John presses the family into the hunt in the south, in the summertime.  How the boys feel about the Southland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The South I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only.

The boys don’t associate home with anywhere in particular, aside from a lingering loyalty towards Lawrence, and the myriad comforts the Impala offers – comfy seats, a roomy trunk, and predictability. Sam likes the dry heat of California and Nevada in the winters, Dean prefers the northwoods in the spring and fall - those are the places they’ve maybe spent the most time in. Both try to avoid the south in the heat of summer, and the north in the cold of winter, because neither temp goes over well with the boys or the Impala. John, nothing seems to bother him, the boys privately think it’s the Marine in him, trained into thinking of the weather as just another tactical consideration - not something personal they way the boys do.

Even as adults, they whine about jobs in the southland, and John always ignores the protests. This summer, though, it kind of grates on his nerves, maybe because the boys have had a wicked sparkle in their eyes for months, and he’s taken the brunt of it. Twenty eight and twenty four, and they’ve taken to sitting in the backseat together (likely so they can hold hands during the quiet miles), but a day doesn’t go by when he doesn’t hear one or the other of them whining like they’re five again, or he has to threaten to pull over, break up a fight over the space in the back. They sound serious, but there’s a suspicious lack of bruises after the fights.

Down to Savannah, they’re long on the arguments, and John’s short on patience. When he checks into the motel he comes out to find a pushy-shovey match in the parking lot. Doesn’t look any different than it did ten years ago, around the time John finally identified Dean as the instigating culprit, and gave him a serious spanking or two that had the boy belying his eighteen years with a blush that matched his behind. There’s a pair of white haired old folks getting out of a station wagon a car or two away, looking at the boys and shaking their heads, and John just sighs.

He separates the boys the same way he always has, giving them a little shake until they stand still. John plants a hard swat on the seat of Dean’s bluejeans, barking an order to get the bags out, take everything into the room. Then he focuses on Sam, grabs his son’s muscled arm to turn him round enough to give him a couple swats.

“Had about enough of this nonsense, son.” He listens to Sam mumble a sketchy yessir, and he hopes to god that isn’t a smile tugging at the corner of his son’s mouth. He pulls his wallet out, and hands some folded bills to the boy. “There’s a diner three blocks down to the right, you bring back some supper, Sammy,” he says, using the nickname to make a point. “And you look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”

Sam’s eyes meet his. “Yessir. D’you want anything special?”

“Bring back a side of peace and quiet and I’ll take some satisfaction from that.”

Sam’s grin is genuine. “Yessir. Back in twenty, Dad.”

He shakes his head, catches a friendly nod from the older gentleman, flashes his best beleaguered father look back. The older man clears his throat.

“Good to see a man who gives his sons what they need,” comes the stately, drawling voice.

“I do try, sir,” he says, letting his vowels drawl out a little, and the man nods again and helps his wife into the room. He slams the door behind him when he enters their own room, and he’s glad to see Dean jump.

“No air conditioning, Dad?” He’s trying not to whine, but it’s hot in the room, mid-afternoon.

“Out for the whole motel. Caught a break on the price.” Dean just sighs, and John’s mind is made up. “Go clean up, Sam’s bringing back an early supper.”

Both of them are in and out by the time Sam comes in, and John sets the packages the boy hands him to the side, waves his youngest into the shower as well, seeing the kid’s near overheated from the walk. Dean’s lying face down on the bed, hasn’t bothered with more than boxer shorts, and John doesn’t quite have the heart to object, in this sleepy heat. Especially with what he’s about to pull on the two.

Sam wanders out of the shower in his own boxers, toweling his hair off, is quick to spot Dean on the bed. Before John can even take a breath the kid’s snapped the towel across his brother’s behind, and Dean’s lunging for him. John shoves Dean back down with a barked command, and for the second time in less than an hour he’s turning his twenty four year old around and smacking his behind a couple of times. This time the kid at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

He’s pleased with the selection Sam’s brought from the diner, cold chicken and salads, the cool food goes down easy in the heat, and all their tempers ease with the addition of a cold beer – Sam’s good for finding the local brews, and the bottles are labeled 420 Pale Ale this time, Sweetwater. It’s light, and perfect with the food. John’s mood improves markedly.

“Boys,” he says, tapping his journal. “Got to meet with some contacts tonight. You’re staying put.” He waits, it isn’t thirty seconds before the protests begin – Dean’s first, of course. Sam’s usually glad enough for downtime here and there, but there’s a frown on his face tonight. “You’re staying. I can’t trust you to behave in the car, for God’s sake, or waiting for me in the parking lot, there’s no way you’re going out to the bars or pool halls. I’m not in the mood,” he says, pausing for emphasis, his voice booming close to his drill sergeant’s voice, “to be hauling you out of trouble that your brother can’t hold you out of, Dean.” The boy looks wounded, and they ignore it. “Two of you are gonna straighten out whatever this petty sniping is all about, or you won’t leave the room until it’s time to move on.”

“Aw, come on, Dad. There’s nothing to stop-“ Dean halts right in the middle of his sentence, because John’s standing up, and his hands are resting on his belt suggestively. It’s rare he punishes his boys that way, but the intimation that he’ll use it is usually pretty effective. Tonight is no different, and he closes the door, two crestfallen faces behind him.

“Shit,” says Dean, Sam echoing him. The room is hot, the air heavily sweltering, the trademark of southern Georgia in the summertime. They sit in silence at the table for a while before Dean throws himself on the bed. There isn’t a television, so he fiddles with the radio for a blues station. Robert Johnson’s plaintive voice fills the room, and Dean looks dejected. Sam thinks for a minute, sits tentatively on the edge of the bed.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” his big brother grunts, and Sam sneaks in closer, running a hand down the glow of Dean’s skin, across the sheen of sweat that the heat always tortures the older boy with. Sam’s just more tolerant of it, after four years in Cali. “Too hot, Sam.”

“No it’s not,” he whispers, and his lips ghost across the back of Dean’s neck, raising goosebumps despite the sweltering atmosphere. Dean will only be able to resist for so long, and sure enough, he’s rolling over, fast and sly, and pulling Sam down atop him, his hand slipping around Sam’s muscled thighs to tease. The DJ segues into the gritty tones of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World, smooth and slow.

It isn’t long before they’re deep in each other, Mood Indigo pacing their lovemaking, slow and easy, southern style. It’s good this way, not their usual rhythm, but the sleepiness of the sultry air seems to seep into the very bones, muscles. Every move is almost drowsy, sensations kissing overload as they move to their climaxes. Sam lets himself slide to Dean’s side after, considerate of his weight, the heat of his body in the now steamy room. The kiss they exchange as Dean lazily draws a sheet over their naked bodies before they drop off to sleep, it’s languid, matching the southern atmosphere, full of a peaceful lassitude, like the liquid air of the south in the summertime.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Louis Armstrong - Mood Indigo


End file.
